


A Wondrous Subtle Thing

by Calais_Reno



Series: Conductor of Light [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Non-consensual sex, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Police corruption, Protective Mycroft, Scandal, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Unexpressed Love, Watson is smarter than he looks, non-explicit descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: During the case of a missing husband, Holmes catches Watson in a compromising situation and reacts violently.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Conductor of Light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983838
Comments: 44
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This part proceeds where "The Best Antidote" left off. Holmes has accepted Watson as a business partner, and they have become lovers, though Holmes is conflicted about his feelings for Watson, believing that it may bias his judgment. His statements about love are in accord with the Holmes ACD wrote. 
> 
> But these are a somewhat younger Holmes and Watson than canon gives us. If Holmes seems unkind and less gentle than his canon counterpart, we can attribute it to a lack of maturity and self-understanding. In the first part of the series, he fought the needs of his transport and resorted to drugs; here he struggles with his need for Watson and what it might ultimately mean to love him. 
> 
> Watson is not the narrator here; Holmes is fairly reliable, to the extent that he understands himself, but Watson is often a mystery to him. 
> 
> The case of the missing husband takes some details from the canon story "The Man with the Twisted Lip," but does not follow that plot to the same conclusion.

It was in the autumn of 1881 that Watson and I became business partners. Our agreement was not recorded on paper, but with a handshake. He trusted me. _A pile of paper never kept anyone out of court,_ he noted. _If it ever comes to that, we will once more shake hands as gentlemen and part ways._

My feelings about him were complicated, but one thing I knew: I could not lose him. He wanted this partnership, and would stay if I gave it to him, but he was an opportunist. For the time being, I was his opportunity, but one day something better would come along and he would move on.

When business was good, I solved crimes; when it was slow, I consulted on small domestic mysteries. Watson managed the rest— the accounts, the correspondence, and my eccentric filing system. In spite of the fact that he was a full partner in the business, he did not grouse about tidying up the disorder of my life. He seemed content.

We rarely discussed this division of labour. As I’ve said, he was attentive, and in time learned to read me well. I did not have to ask him to make tea or to prepare notes for ongoing cases. He learned my writing style well enough to reply to most letters that I received, and would take dictation from me when he was not sure what to write. He gauged my moods and urged food or sleep on me. Though he tolerated my arguments to the contrary, he was invariably accurate when it came to the needs of my transport. However incomplete his training as a doctor had been, I suppose he had learned to read the physical signs of health and disease.

With the same intuition, he knew when he ought to come to my bed, and when he should sleep in his own. Those were inevitably the nights when I most craved morphine. I did not ask, he did not ask. He simply slid into bed beside me and put his arms around me. When I did not reject him, he would take care of my need. Once I’d fallen asleep, he would slip away and I would not see him again until breakfast.

When several months had gone by, I came to the conclusion that I was a fool.

I had set up a partition in my mind, separating the work from these night indulgences. To me, it was little different than cocaine or morphine, a therapy that allowed me to do the work. Watson was simply a drug.

But he was many other things as well, and as the weeks went by I realised that I could not keep my feelings for him separate. This failing had nearly been my downfall once. I am a fool.

When I was working, I was able to suppress hunger and fatigue. Nor did my libido make claims on me when my brain was fully occupied.

Libido is a physical need; love is something more subtle, its demands less easily defined. This was why, as a young man at Cambridge, I resolved to live without love. Only once had I allowed it to bias my judgment, and that was nearly a disaster. I could not permit myself to have these feelings.

And now I had invited into my home the seeds of my own destruction. To keep him was forever to struggle with romantic feelings; to let him go was impossible.

Sometimes, in the throes of physical passion, he would murmur in my ear, my _darling, my dear, my own, my love._

And sometimes, if he fell asleep beside me, I would whisper, _don’t leave me._

I did not often have Watson screen clients; he was far too likely to be carried away by their stories and miss the most important details. That is the type of person he is, impulsive and romantic. I was hoping to train him to be more impartial, but sentiment seemed to be an indelible part of his nature.

When the front bell rang one afternoon, though, Mrs Hudson was at the shops, and I had turned my ankle the previous day as we chased and apprehended a suspect. I’d brushed off Watson’s ministrations, insisting that I was fine, but by morning it was painful and swollen, though he assured me that nothing was broken. I was sitting in my chair with my leg propped, and Watson had prepared me a compress of ice to take down the swelling. My leg ached and my temper was short.

“Go see who it is,” I told him, “and send them away if they are boring. I am sick to death of governesses with mysterious employers and shop girls who have seen ghosts. In fact, send away any woman, on principle. I am not in the mood to deal with feminine vacillation.”

I heard him open the front door, and then a woman’s voice. I couldn’t hear what he replied, but I relaxed, trusting that he would send her away. The conversation went on longer than expected, though, and I groaned when I heard them ascending the stairs together, still talking.

I scowled as Watson introduced her. “This is Lillian Martin,” he said. “She is here about her husband Robert, who is missing.”

I could see why Watson had allowed her in. Later he would describe her as _lovely, sympathetic, intuitive,_ or some other romantic rubbish. She was, in short, an attractive and extremely well-dressed woman, not much older than thirty years. Though Watson did not intentionally flirt with pretty women, they invariably worked on his sympathies.

“Do you believe him dead?” This was blunt, but I wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

“I know he is not,” she said, raising her chin.

“An affair,” I snapped. “Obviously, he is seeing another woman. He will not leave you, though, because you’ve brought all the money into the marriage and have not given over control of it to him.”

She smiled. “Your talent for deduction has not been exaggerated.”

I was slightly mollified by this. “Of course. I trust that I have made the correct inferences.”

“You are correct about the money, Mr Holmes, but I’m afraid it’s more complicated.”

I glanced at Watson, who shrugged. He sat and took out his notebook, prepared to write down anything of importance.

“Begin,” I said. “And do not be tedious. Give me the facts only.”

“Very well,” she said. “My husband, Robert, was my childhood friend. We became sweethearts and married young, against the wishes of my father, the late Charles Vaughn. He earned his first fortune in textiles, and his second through careful investments of the first. He trained me to succeed him in the management of the company, which duties I assumed when he died last year.”

“And the company has done well?” Watson asked.

I scowled at him. “Of course it has. Use your eyes— the lady is obviously prosperous.” I turned my attention back to Mrs Martin. “Pray, continue.”

“Robert has never done more for the company than manage some of our smaller assets, and it has begun to chafe at him lately. He has no head for business, poor man, but I love him dearly. His interests have always run to the arts, and I have encouraged him in that, but he felt that I wasn’t trusting him, which is sadly true. As a business owner, I have an obligation to my shareholders and employees. But I realised that he would not be happy unless I gave him control over a part of the business. My father had done the same for me at an early age, which is how I learned the business. I hoped that the responsibility might improve him.”

Watson looked like he might say something. I shot him a look. “Your father was a wise man, Mrs Martin,” I said. “I’m afraid, though, that it hasn’t turned out well.”

“No, it hasn’t. I haven’t interfered, but now it looks as if he’s been taken in by an unscrupulous man. Robert has been very secret about it, and a week ago he said he had a business meeting in Manchester and would not be back for several days. He seemed excited, and promised that I would be pleased with what he had done. I did not like the secrecy, but felt that to doubt him would tear down all trust between us. I fear now, after so many days without word from him, that he has lost what I gave him to manage, involving himself in some illegal business.”

“How do you know that he is alive?”

“I was in town yesterday to pick up a parcel of some value. The shipping company’s office was in Fresno Street, adjacent to an unsavoury area where I would never walk after dark. I was in a state of some agitation, wondering what had become of Robert, why he hadn’t sent me any word. I was heading down Swandon Lane towards the train station, when, hearing a window open, I happened to look up. I was astonished to see my husband at a second-floorwindow, looking terribly agitated, almost wild. He vanished then, and the window was closed.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in your husband’s appearance?”

“It was brief, but in that moment I noted that he wore neither collar nor necktie. He had not shaved in several days, I think. And the way he disappeared, so sudden— it was as if someone had pulled him away, someone who might be keeping him captive.” She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Oh, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes.”

“Did you attempt to enter the house?”

“It was an opium den. There was a guard at the door who opposed me, pushed me out into the street.”

“Why did you not contact the police?”

“Because I did not want to see him arrested.”

“You are certain that he has done something illegal?”

“That must be what has happened, Mr Holmes! If he had merely lost the money, I believe he would have returned by now.”

“I’m afraid you underestimate the male ego, Mrs Martin. However, you may be correct. You might do better to consult a lawyer at this point. If we do find him and what you fear is true, he will surely be arrested.”

“Oh, no, Mrs Holmes!” Her eyes widened. “He’s my husband, and I know him better than I know myself. If Robert has done something wrong, he did it unknowingly, and must not take the blame for this unscrupulous man who has tricked him. I have money, and will pay whatever is necessary to keep him out of trouble.”

And this is precisely why women are so vexing. Even a woman of business like Mrs Martin was sentimental, to her detriment. She had married a man for romantic reasons, had lost a considerable sum to his foolishness, and not only wanted him back, but was willing to protect him from the consequences of his imprudent decisions. Perhaps they deserved one another.

“You might be better off without him.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Watson frowning.

Her voice trembled. “Please find him for me, Mr Holmes, and do not involve the police. I will pay what you ask.”

“The police may already be involved,” I replied.

“Then I have lost him,” she said, now weeping in earnest. “Please do whatever you can. Find this man who has cheated him. If you do, I’m certain he will lead you to Robert.”

Watson took her hand in his. “We will do our best, Mrs Martin.”

She smiled at us, through her tears. “Thank you.”

When she was gone, I expressed my dissatisfaction to my partner.

“I have no doubt that we will find the scoundrel,” I said. “Martin will be up to his neck in debt to him, and this man will threaten to put the blame for their illegal business on him, demanding a large sum to let him off the hook. She would do better to walk away from the marriage.”

Watson sighed. “She clearly loves him, Holmes.”

“She is clearly a fool,” I replied. “I will ask around for the man.”

He shook his head. “You’re not going to that opium den.”

I laughed. “Sherlock Holmes will not go there.”

“No,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Neither will Captain Basil, or any of the other personae you have in your closet. Your ankle is not healed. You will put yourself in danger.” He straightened his back. “Send me.”

“Watson, you are invaluable to me as a partner, but you are still a fresh-faced boy without the guile to pass yourself off as an opium addict.”

A look passed over his face. “I am hardly naive, Holmes. I passed myself off as a doctor once. I trust you remember that.”

“And you did not fool me. No, Watson. I will handle this. You may write up Mrs Martin’s story. When you are done with that, my grey suit needs some attention.”

“If I am truly your partner,” he said. “You must sooner or later trust me with more than your files and your wardrobe. Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you, but you are not ready. Mrs Martin trusted her husband, and they both have paid a heavy price.”

He nodded curtly and began writing up his notes.

My evening at the opium den was a bit harrowing. I do not smoke the stuff myself, but I have spent time around addicts and was able to pass unnoticed in the den, limping on a crutch and disguised as an ancient seaman. I mentioned that a mate of mine had cut me out of a deal he had with a fellow whose name I didn’t know. This gained me nothing.

I casually dropped in at a couple of less savoury pubs in the area, but no one could tell me what had happened to Robert Martin. The case ground to a halt.

I slept late and spent the afternoon lounging in my dressing gown and smoking several pipes of tobacco, thinking about whether putting in a word at the Yard would violate my client’s wishes. I hated going to them for help, and was sure Lestrade would hold it over me.

Watson was not happy and avoided talking after I’d told him the details of my evening. When he is angry, he becomes even more silent than usual. As far as I was concerned, his silence was a gift to my throbbing head and aching foot. I had him bring me tea, which he did without a word. By late afternoon, he seemed less resentful.

“I’m meeting my brother for dinner at the Diogenes Club,” I told him. “I assume you have written up the notes for the Martin case.”

“I have.”

“Then you may have the evening off.” I had no idea what he would do with the time. He had no more friends than I had, but perhaps he would enjoy an evening without me.

“Thank you.”

I smiled. “Of course. I do value you, Watson. And I trust you.”

“You’ll need your stick if you’re planning to walk on that ankle,” he pointed out.

He was right, of course. When I was dressed, he had my black cane with the silver knob polished and ready.

“I hope you won’t be too bored,” I said, taking my hat from him.

“No worries. I have some reading to catch up on,” he assured me. “Have a pleasant evening.”

“You’ve met my brother,” I replied. “Do you really think it will be pleasant?”

He laughed at that. Mycroft disliked Watson on principal, simply for having the gall to be poor and uneducated, and even greater impudence to pretend he was not. I think what irritated him most was that Watson was fairly good at passing as a gentlemen, and that I invariably introduced him as _Doctor Watson_. For his part, Watson took joy in treating Mycroft with the utmost deference, simply because it rankled my brother. I almost asked him to come to dinner with me, just to witness their polite jabs at one another.

He quirked a small smile. “Please send him my most humble greetings.”

My brother was insufferable, as always. “How is your new _employee_ working out?” he asked. Mycroft was fluent in euphemism, stressing words subtly and leaving gaps filled with significance to indicate where another meaning was intended. “Has he proved… _satisfactory?”_

“Quite,” I replied.

“Do be careful, Sherlock.” He spread butter on another roll. “There are certain _risks_. Surely you’re aware that we are living in an age of great _immorality_ , according to the Conservative party. I will not argue that point with them, though this age seems no worse than many that have gone before. The difference is that many of that party seem determined to stir up a moral crusade, obviously a ploy to become the majority party once more. It is not the rise in crime alone that they rail against; it is the pervasive immorality that is the root cause of it all, they claim. Their position is that policing of morals is necessary. How else are we to fill all the prisons we have built? And how else are politicians to be reelected if there is no war to fight? A war on immorality, invented by politicians, is their answer.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “The electorate is an idiot.”

“I have no time for politics,” I said. “Certainly criminals must be removed from society. That is where I put my efforts.”

“There are other kinds of immorality.”

“If you are talking about drug addicts, or prostitutes, or sodomites, surely these are private matters, not a reason to fill the prisons.”

“Moral decay eats at the fibre of society, brother. Though I have no strong feelings about it, this is what the conservatives will have us believe, that private vices will corrupt the children of Britain and weaken our empire.”

I laughed. “Half of the children of Britain live in the streets and steal to put food in their mouths. If the conservatives want to improve their morality, feeding them and sending them to school might be better than building more prisons.”

He sighed. “I do not disagree, Sherlock. What concerns me is your own _situation._ Scotland Yard has been looking into places like your _maison close._ It is only a matter of time before client lists come to light.”

“I no longer frequent that place.” I shrugged. “Life is full of risks.” _Like too much bread with butter._

“There is _risk_ ,” Mycroft replied sententiously, “and there is _foolhardiness_.”

“And I, not being an idiot, have been careful to minimise my risks. I used an alias when I went, and I have not been there in months.”

“You have gained recognition over these months, both your name and your face. These moralists have an agenda, and the newspapers are baying like hounds on the scent.” He took a newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to me. The headline read: _Brothel Raid in Fitzrovia / Prominent Citizens Arrested_

The article described the very house I had frequented.

“If you read a few paragraphs down, you will see that client lists were seized. I do hope that you chose a sufficiently common _nom de guerre._ All it will take is for one _employee_ to connect _Mr William Vernet_ with Mr Sherlock Holmes, and you will have the type of publicity that no one craves.”

The article mentioned the names of several of the _employees_ , two of whom I knew. Intimately, of course.

“Sherlock, I may not approve of your Watson, but he has been keeping you out of more than one kind of trouble. You would do well to see that he remains loyal. Treat him well, lest someone bribe him to talk.”

“Watson was never employed by a brothel,” I said.

“Wasn’t he?” Mycroft smirked. “Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think.”

I returned home at half nine to find the flat empty. I did not know why, but this made me irritable. The fire was out and I wanted a cup of tea. I wanted Watson to bring me ice and insist that I put my leg up. I did not plan to tell him about my brother’s warning.

I hollered up the stairs towards his room. He is a light sleeper, and in any case does not retire so early. His missing coat confirmed it. I had given him the evening off, so could hardly complain that he’d gone out, but it bothered me. I imagined him in a pub, talking with other men of his class, maybe flirting with the barmaid.

 _He was mine,_ I had thought. More than a servant, he had always seemed content in my company. I did not know what had prompted him to go out, or have a clue as to where he would go. Perhaps he was still angry about my excursion of the previous night. He had waited up for me, worrying. Now I was being given a taste of that same medicine.

I made my own tea, and it did not taste quite right. How hard can it be to pour boiling water over tea leaves? And if I wanted ice, I would have to go wake Mrs Hudson and chip it off the block myself. I had no icebox in my rooms.

My clothing I flung on the chair in my bedroom, not caring whether it wrinkled or hit the floor. Watson would take care of it. I put on my dressing gown, sat in my chair, and drank my unsatisfactory tea.

When it was close to midnight, I heard his key in the door downstairs. At once, I snatched up a book and began to read the page where it fell open. His feet on the stairs sounded sober, and not a bit weary. He opened the door. I did not look up.

He lifted the kettle off the hob, made a scoffing sound, filled it and lit the hob. Then he stood at the door of the sitting room, smiling at me.

I glanced up and nodded. “Watson.”

“Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

“Your thread-bare jacket and patched trousers tell me you’ve been slumming in some lower-class establishment, probably near Holborn, judging by the mud on your boots, flirting with buxom women and drinking cheap beer.”

Placing his hands on the arms of my chair, he leaned over me until his face was close to mine. “What do you smell?”

“Ship’s tobacco. Beer. Fried potatoes.”

He leaned into me and kissed me on the mouth. “Have I been drinking?”

He had not. There was only the merest hint of alcohol on his tongue, which he used to tease my mouth. “You have not. What have you been doing, then?”

Laughing, he pulled away. “Deduce it.”

I shrugged. I had no idea what he’d been up to, but could hardly reveal that. “You met friends. Army mates, I think. You had one beer, early.” I looked at him sharply. “You have been with someone. A woman, I think.”

I’m sure my face flushed when I said this. Our contract, being unwritten, did not preclude sexual activity with others. I had no desire for this, but the idea that he did made me suddenly feel ill. _He’s mine,_ my animal brain repeated.

“You’re disgusting,” I said. “When I consented to having you in my bed, I did not think you would—“

“I didn’t.” He grinned. “You see, but you do not observe.”

My patience was gone. “What the devil have you done, Watson?”

“Michael Ahearn,” he said. “That is the name of our unscrupulous businessman. And I know where he’s staying.”

“You— you’ve been investigating?”

“I have.”

“I did not ask you—“

“No, but I am the very man you should have asked. Your disguises are clever, Holmes, but you only fool people of your own class. I am from the gutter, my dear, and people who live there believe me. I have obtained the information on our suspect, and have aroused no suspicions. I know where he is.”

I was still angry, but would process that later. “Where?” I demanded.

“The Comstock. He’s been there for over a week. He goes out most nights at around nine and returns several hours later. We might stake out the hotel and follow him.”

“Your source?”

“The barmaid at the Pillar and Post. She pointed him out to me.”

“He was there?”

He smiled grimly. “He was. Don’t look at me like that, Holmes. I have a very good poker face. And Maisie and I have an understanding—“

“ _Understanding?_ ”

“You need not be jealous, Holmes. I only purchased information, not any other favours. I promised her more if we apprehend him.”

“I am not jealous,” I said irritably. “You’ve done well, I suppose. That does not mean I condone what you did. You should have asked.”

“And you would have said no. Shall we plan on tomorrow night?”

“Very well, we will go together. And you will follow my directions.”

He smiled. “As always, Mr Holmes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-graphic description of non-consensual sex (not Holmes/Watson).

Michael Ahearn was running an illegal investment scheme most recently known as The Lancaster Joint Stock Company. Watson had learned that Ahearn never stayed in one location for long, closing offices before investors caught on, opening new ones under new names. It is an old, but ingenious swindle, paying off initial investors with the deposits of later ones. Ultimately it collapses like a house of cards, and Ahearn had outrun more than one collapse. Robert Martin had been convinced to liquidate some of the securities his wife had entrusted to him, to invest the resulting cash in Ahearn’s company, and to sell worthless shares of the same to unsuspecting investors, believing that this would bring greater profits.

We did not yet know where Robert Martin was, though I suspect he had figured out that he’d been duped and was spending whatever remained on whisky. According to Watson’s source, Ahearn had been staying at the Comstock Hotel recently, and for several nights had gone out to a local pub at about the same hour.

Since Watson had acquired this information, it seemed only fair to take him with me to stake out the building. If there were any trouble, he knew how to handle a revolver, and never hesitated to run down suspects, tackling them if necessary, even if it put him in danger. And if there were any women involved in the night’s adventure, I could make sure there were no favours exchanged.

I’d left him in the back alley to keep watch over the rear entrance of the hotel whilst I walked around to the front, pretending that I was there to meet someone. Ahearn had not yet appeared, but as it was now dark, I expected him to leave the building soon.

After a half an hour, I began to suspect that he had gotten wind of my interest and had moved his business to a new location. I went inside and told the desk clerk that I had arranged to meet someone and I wondered if he had left any word. Watson had described Ahearn admirably, and when I relayed this description, the clerk knew at once who I meant.

“I’m afraid Mr Smith has checked out, sir. No message.”

“Ah, perhaps he forgot our appointment,” I replied. “Much obliged.”

I made my way behind the building to regroup with Watson. As I came around the corner, as always being careful to make no noise, I saw something that made me stop in my tracks.

There were three men, police from the look of them. At first, I thought that Watson had been apprehended for some petty offence. But then I saw… he was on his knees, one policeman in front of him, trousers undone, the other two waiting their turn.

I went blind with rage. _Loyalty._ That was all I’d asked for. He had no reason to seek outside jobs, but obviously had been unable to resist.

I pressed myself up against the wall, unwilling to look, unable to tear myself away, wishing I could rip my eyes out of my head. _The little pig!_ Using the mouth that belonged to _me_ to pleasure these foul men. It was intolerable.

Shaking, I took deep breaths, imagining all the ways I could punish his disloyalty. I’d have to let him go, I decided, but not until I’d reminded him of his promise.

My heart steadied and my breathing came under control. My hands still trembled slightly. When I heard movement, I took a peek and saw that the police were leaving. Watson was getting to his feet, leaning against the building. The men joked with him; he smiled and nodded. I heard the chink of coins hitting the pavement.

The voices retreated. I stepped out of my hiding place and strode towards him.

“Holmes.” He knelt still, picking up the coins. The look of terror on his face told me that he knew he’d been caught.

I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. “You little cunt!” I hissed. “On your feet!”

He stood. Grabbing his shoulder, I propelled him towards the street. When I raised my hand, a cab appeared and I herded him inside.

Once inside the cab, he dared to raise his eyes. “Mr Holmes, I—”

“Hold your tongue,” I said. “I’ll deal with you once we’re home.”

He nodded and lowered his head, wisely keeping silent for the remainder of the ride.

The fury I had felt in the alley grew deeper. I could not remember ever feeling so betrayed. It hurt physically in a way I had not expected. Meting out punishment was necessary; generally I was cold about such things, but now I was not sure I could restrain myself. This burned. I could not think how to stop the pain.

I opened the front door and pushed him through. Slamming the door behind me, I simply glared at him for a long moment.

“I can explain.” Tears filled his eyes and started to course down his cheeks. The welt where I slapped him was bright red. “Please hear me out.”

I slapped him again. If I’d hit him with my fist, I’m certain I could have broken his jaw. He flinched, but did not shrink away.

“You have made a serious mistake,” I said, shoving him against the wall. “Upstairs.”

I followed him up the stairs, noting that his limp was worse. Once we were inside our rooms, I sat in my chair. He stood before me, trembling and unable to meet my eyes.

“Do you remember what I said when you came to work for me?” I asked.

“You said you’d turn me over to the coppers, see me arrested for prostitution if I was ever disloyal.”

My heat was beginning to cool and congeal into something deadlier. “Perhaps that would not be a fitting punishment, seeing as how you’ve made clients of them.”

“Holmes—“

“Be silent until I ask you to speak,” I said. “Have I not treated you well, Watson? Have I not trusted you with my most intimate secrets? It was you who insisted on sharing my living situation without any regular wages. I would have tried to find a way to pay you, but you only wanted to be my partner. You know our income down to the penny, and have seen that I am not cheating you, but depriving myself as well. We have shared equally in lean weeks and those that paid us well. And now— you should have told me if you were not content with our arrangement. You swore your loyalty to me, but apparently that meant nothing to you. That you would go behind my back to make a few coins—“ I turned away, unable to look at him. “You have disappointed me.”

“May I speak?”

“I do not wish to see you right now,” I told him. “I must consider whatthis breach of trust deserves.”

His voice was quiet, resigned. “Will you not allow me to defend myself?”

The will to hit him was gone. Anger, now departed, had left me exhausted. My heart ached, remembering what I’d seen. “Go to bed. We will talk in the morning.”

I did not sleep. I felt as if my heart had been broken, and vowed never to care again. My brother has often warned me about my _fatal flaw._ _You are susceptible to sentiment, brother,_ he said. _Caring is too often a liability._

I thought of what Mycroft had said about Watson: _keep him loyal._ But I could not imagine looking at him every day, knowing how he’d betrayed me. How could I ever trust him again? The greater flaw was mine, though; I had recognised Watson as a gambler, an impetuous opportunist, but had failed to understand his limits. I could not keep him on as a partner. When I next spoke to him, it would be to dismiss him.

I was up at dawn. I heard nothing from his room.

When I heard the newspaper boys outside, I went down and bought a paper. After reading the headline, I caught a cab and went straight to my brother’s club.

He was at breakfast when I was brought to him, reading the same newspaper I had just purchased.

“Well, Sherlock,” he said. “I suppose you’re worried now.”

“These lists the newspaper has obtained— I need to know whether I am in danger.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re not the only one who’s worried. I will not name any individuals, but I know of several _upstanding_ citizens who are eager to suppress any client lists that may become public. As it stands, the matter may be in court for a while, but ultimately, I believe names will be released.”

“But there never were any lists! And all the clients used pseudonyms. Where are they getting this information from?”

“Perhaps the establishment did not keep a list, but someone working there may have. That seems likely. Blackmail is too profitable not to offer temptations, as you know. The house owner may have been sure of his staff, but there are always individuals who talk, and often a few who keep notes. And whether you used a false name or not, several of your recent cases have made you a public figure. Your face would be easily recognised. As I said, it was a foolish risk.”

I sat down, burying my face in my hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“When was the last time you patronised the business?”

“Months— maybe six months ago. And I doubt if any of the current employees would remember me. There was a high turnover rate among the boys.”

Mycroft sighed. “We cannot afford to have you involved. Fortunately, one of us has been thinking with the appropriate organ. That’s me, by the way. I have already taken steps to obtain the list. You are not on it. Unless some boy calls you out, I believe you are safe.”

“I’m safe?” My relief was overwhelming. “Why didn’t you say that ten minutes ago, when we began this conversation?”

His look was solemn. “Because I want you to understand what a fool you are, brother, and how your carelessness endangers not only you, but those around you. I have always looked after your interests, and I will continue to protect you from your own idiocy. You are my brother, and that means something to me. Furthermore, I am willing to protect your _protégé_ , whom you seem to have forgotten in your panic over your own reputation.”

“Watson? Is he in danger?”

“He was on the payroll of a brothel, Sherlock, and was known by the police to frequent the Regent’s Park. Of course he’s in danger. While exposure would certainly damage your reputation, for him it would be catastrophic. He has a chance to escape that world for good, a chance of your making. I’d expected you to be more concerned, even if you regard him merely as an investment. Your utter self-absorption makes me wonder: do you care at all about John Watson? If he goes to prison, it will ruin him. He cannot simply run off to the continent and live off his family’s wealth, as so many of these men have done — as you might do, if it came to that. He will serve time, like the other boys.”

I laughed, incredulous. “You sound rather sentimental, brother. Not so long ago, you were ready to turn him over to the police!”

“I am thinking only of _your_ feelings, Sherlock. My own feelings about him as a person are irrelevant. As far as I’m concerned, he has become an asset to you. Assets should be protected.”

“I had planned to dismiss him. He is not as satisfactory as I had hoped.”

“Do _not_ dismiss him,” Mycroft said. “Absolutely not. Even if you plan to give him a nice sum in parting, he may turn on you. It is too great a risk now, while this is in the public eye. You must be sure of him. Give him a raise.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“He is smarter than he looks, Sherlock. He will talk to avoid serving time.”

“Nine months,” I said. “That’s what they gave two of the boys. And they were current employees. How can they even touch Watson? Is there no statute of limitations in such cases?”

“My dear brother, you are an idiot. Even if he does no time, having his name in the newspapers will reflect on you both. And then, what? Will you keep him on, or will you fear being tainted by his reputation? He has made some very bad choices and probably deserves to pay a price for them. And you have made bad choices as well; you hired him out of sentiment— do not deny it! You are in love with him. To cut him off to save yourself is ignoble and cruel. Honestly, Sherlock, you disappoint me. I have long accepted that you are ruled by your foolish heart, which will upstage reason every time. Do not attempt to build your arguments on reason, when your initial premise has been love.”

The argument was an old one, and never failed to put me on the losing side. “You said you would protect him.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will, but I need assurances from you.”

“What assurances?”

“I will do everything I can to prevent his name from being made public. For your part, you will not let him go, no matter what the outcome of the investigation is. If it comes out that he worked at this place, you will stand by him. And you will treat him well.”

“I _do_ treat him well.” _Hitting him last night was not good. I will have to make it up to him._ “I treat him very well.”

“You could treat him better, and you should. God only knows why he remains with you, the way you knock him about and work him non-stop, then expect him to warm your bed as well. Employees treated badly can quickly become enemies. Do we understand one another, Sherlock?”

“I will do as you say,” I replied.

I got out of the cab at the park and walked around for a while, too agitated to return to Baker Street. Watson could hardly blame me for hitting him, but by now he might have decided that we should part ways. I blamed myself, mostly. I had seen his ambition, his willingness to lie. He had done it before, to avoid arrest, and might do it again. Mycroft had made sure I was not on the list, but if Watson made a deal with the police, I was doomed.

But my angry reaction last night, though directed at Watson, was really about me. I was angry with myself because I had cared for him, and had foolishly thought he cared for me as well.

Mycroft knew me better than I liked to admit; what he pointed out was true. If I dismissed Watson out of fear for myself, I was a hypocrite. I might justify firing him as a logical measure, but it would really be retaliation. He had hurt me. I was angry and wanted to hurt him.

I could not let him go, but how could we continue as we had, after what had happened last night? In my mind, I could still see him kneeling before the cop, hear the others laughing, the sound of coins hitting the pavement. I was a fool to have trusted him.

I climbed the stairs to our rooms quickly, fearing that he might have left by now. When I opened the door, though, he was seated in his chair, reading the newspaper. There was a bruise on his face where I had struck him.

He looked up when I entered, meeting my gaze without his usual smile of welcome. He did not jump up and offer to make tea. He folded the newspaper and stood.

“Mr Holmes,” he said stiffly. “There is something I must tell you.”

I raised my hand. “I should not have struck you,” I said. “That was… impulsive. I was too hot. I am cooler now, and know that I was wrong to do so. But you have betrayed my trust, Watson, and have hurt me more than I can express.” I sank into my chair.

He dashed tears from his eyes. Drawing a shuddering breath, he spoke. “I’m sorry for what I did. I would rather’ve died—” His voice caught. “I didna know what to do.”

“What do you mean, you _didna know what to do_?” I said coldly. “Obviously, you should not let other men’s pricks find their way into your mouth — or any other part of your anatomy. I should not have to explain that. I thought it was understood.”

“Yes, I know. But they’re coppers, sir. They take what they want no matter what you say. The brothel owners always let ‘em have boys for free, so they’ll keep their mouths shut and not ruin their business. It’s just expected, if a cop wants it, you have to give out.”

“You’re not someone’s _boy_ , Watson.”

“No, sir. I’m your partner. And they threatened to ruin you. They don’t like you, Mr Holmes. You show their incompetence, make ‘em look like fools. They said if I didn’t, they’d bust you. Gross indecency, they called it. I would have refused, but I was afraid.” His voice had gained steadiness as he spoke. “I should have fought ‘em. They’re just bullies, and I’ve never backed down from that lot. Anything they could say about me, it’s all true. I’ve been a rent boy, a molly, a whore. But you’re a gentleman…”

I felt my gut clench. _Blackmail._ The target of my wrath had moved. “No, John — you are _not_ a rent boy. You no longer have to sell your body. This is the last time anyone will take advantage of you.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What have you in mind, Holmes?”

“I will handle it.”

“Do not endanger yourself for my sake. I’m a liability to you, and it may be best if we part ways. These coppers will not leave off, and I am not willing to see your reputation dragged through the mud on account of me.”

“No, you will stay. We are partners, and I will not allow you to be treated this way.”

He shook his head. “If you’re planning to say something to Lestrade, don’t bother. You may think him your friend, but he’s still a peeler, and that lot stick together. You’ll only make trouble for yourself.”

I nodded. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I'll be back for dinner.”

I glared across the desk at Lestrade. “I see nothing humorous in this situation, Inspector.”

The smile vanished from the man’s lips. “No, ah… naturally it concerns me that my men would do something so… vile. Perhaps your boy led them to believe…”

“Your _men_ threatened my _partner_ , promised to blackmail him if he did not give in to their disgusting demands. Apparently, it is quite common for the police to coerce young men into these situations, when they are only trying to make a living. And what are you doing about it?”

“Mr Holmes, it’s the press who are pushing this. It sells newspapers. We do not go after molly-houses or brothels unless someone makes a fuss. In truth, it’s like trying to hold back the sea. To each his own, I always say. If people enjoy these services and others can profit by providing them, no harm done, eh? We try to look the other way. If a few of my men bend that way, and if the owner is not complaining about income lost, well, what’s the difference?”

“Dr Watson does not work for this house or any other establishment that the newspapers may investigate. He works for me. Rather than looking the other way, I am providing him with honest employment. I know all about his past. That does not concern me. What concerns me is his future.”

“I’ll have a word with them, Mr Holmes. He won’t be… troubled again.”

“ _Assaulted_ is the word you’re looking for, I believe.” I stood and leaned forward, placing my palms on the desk. “I know people, Mr Lestrade. Powerful people. I can make a great deal of trouble if any of your men so much as give my partner a sidelong look.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, smirking a bit. “I hope your _partner_ appreciates all you’re doing for him. It’s admirable, really, for a gentleman like yourself to take such an interest in a boy who’s down on his luck.”

The implication was clear. “Just keep your own _boys_ out of trouble,” I said.

When I returned to the flat, Watson was pasting newspaper clippings into my index.

“Read this,” he said, handing me the afternoon edition.

I nodded. “I’ve read it. You need not worry, Watson. I’ve already discussed it with Mycroft. He has some influence, and—“

“Not that article. The one I’ve marked.”

I took the paper from his hand and read: _Arrest in Lancaster Stock Scandal. Mr Robert Martin was apprehended today and charged with fraud in a scheme that has been perpetrated on dozens of people over many months…_

“I have failed, then,” I said. “She wanted to protect him, but I failed to find Ahearn in time.”

He stood next to me, his arm around my waist as we read. “The failure isn’t yours, Holmes. You couldn’t have saved him. He was already deeply involved when she came to us. Even if we had found Ahearn, we couldn’t have prevented this. Martin is guilty, and Ahearn will eventually be caught.”

 _And we are guilty too,_ I thought. A different law, perhaps an unjust one, but nevertheless…

“He’ll serve time for it,” I said.

“And she will stand by him.” He took the newspaper from me and laid it on the pile with the clippings. “She knew what might happen and made her choice.”

“This puzzles me, Watson. I do not generally encounter females with much mental capacity, but Mrs Martin is an intelligent woman. And yet she has made a foolish choice to stay with a man who betrayed her trust. I do not understand it.”

“Love is a wondrous subtle thing, Holmes.” He encircled me with his arms and smiled up at me. “It makes fools of us all.”

I could not argue with that.

After dinner, we sat by the fire, he immersed in his book, I smoking and thinking. It grew late. The silence was heavy, but neither of us seemed to have much to say.

The clock chimed eleven.

“Watson,” I said.

He looked up from his book. "Holmes?”

“I am sorry… about… what happened. What you endured.”

“Think no more about it.” He gave me a reassuring smile and returned to his book.

My train of thought continued.

After several minutes had gone by, I spoke again. “It’s just… it makes no sense to me.”

“What makes no sense?”

“I can buy cocaine and laudanum at the chemist’s shop on the corner. Nothing illegal about it. I know you don’t agree, _Doctor,_ but many medical men use these to treat a variety of ills. Perhaps one day the law will close them down, but for now, they are completely legal.”

“And your point is…?”

“These dangerous drugs are legal, but love— the simple, honest love between two men, a love that harms no one— this is illegal.”

He closed his book. “You’re right, Holmes. It makes no sense.”

I stood, took both of our cups to the sink. When I returned to the sitting room, he appeared lost in thought.

“I think I’ll retire to bed.” I nodded towards my room. “I would very much like it if… that is… would you…?”

He stood and came to me, taking my hands in his. “I would like that, too.”

Later, when he slept soundly beside me, I hovered over his ear and whispered, _I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from "The Sign of Four" / Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
